Close Call
by Halcris
Summary: Giordano, the villain from the previous story Traffic Problems, has been taken safely into custody, and will undoubtedly go to prison, much to George Cowley's satisfaction. But he is a violent and excitable man, and is determined to get revenge on C.I.5 for ruining his criminal career.


**Close Call.**

George Cowley swung his car into its usual place in the yard at C.I.5's Headquarters, greeted the doorman affably, and took the lift up to his office. He was feeling particularly good these days. It was less than a week since his force had carried out the very successful raid on the Ealing warehouse, which had finally enabled him to catch, red-handed, Guiseppe Giordano, an arch villain who had been a thorn in his side for years.

He had been particularly careful to bring the police in on this effort, so that the man had been correctly cautioned and arrested, with no chance of any technical slip-up that would enable the crafty lawyers he could afford to employ, to get him out of trouble.

Giordano was now well and truly in custody, clearly guilty of 'people-smuggling', and with evidence of other crimes piling up against him.

As soon as he could, Cowley had contacted the police in Liverpool and told them of the arrest. They now had full powers to go in and thoroughly investigate Giordano's other warehouse on their patch, and they did it with enthusiasm.

Cowley had been delighted when he had been informed of what they had found. It was an interesting list ! They had uncovered a cache of small arms, similar to the one Bodie had seen, paperwork that had revealed details of a lot of dubious activities, and several crates of stolen art treasures, consignments due to disappear onto the continent, into the hands of private collectors, never to be seen again.

It might be some while before all the evidence was amassed, and charges prepared, but it was certain that Giordano's criminal career was well and truly over.

The one blot on the landscape that still rankled in Cowley's mind, was the thought of the good man they had lost, Willis. But somehow responsibility for that would be added to the list. He would see that it was. !

Giordano, however, was not helping matters. He was causing trouble in the prison where he was being held on remand, ranting and raving, denying everything, and being very un-co-operative, and obstructive. He complained about the food, the accommodation, the other men around him, and the people who kept asking him questions.

But most of all, he ranted on about getting his revenge on those who had put him in this situation. He was virulent about the police who had arrested him, accusing them, falsely, of lying and brutality.

He was most vitriolic about C.I.5, yelling that he was going to get them all, Cowley, Bodie and Doyle. They would be sorry they'd ever crossed him, he swore bitterly !

C.I.5 were warned of the threatening talk, of course, but they didn't take a great deal of account of it, as they had heard similar many times before.

Perhaps they should have done, as they seemed not to have given enough weight to the fact that Giordano was Italian, and so had many 'connections', maybe even Mafia, though there was as yet no proof of this. But then that particular 'brotherhood' was very secretive and covert.

So what happened next, came as a bit of a shock !

It was early evening. Cowley had left Headquarters and driven to his home.

He didn't take his car round the back to its usual secure garage, as he was due at another meeting later, and had just come home to wash and change.

As he pulled his car to a halt, there was a sudden bang, and the glass of the window next to him shattered, showering him with splinters of glass. He'd ducked instinctively, and heard the solid 'thunk', as a bullet imbedded itself in the inside passenger-side door panel.

Keeping low, he tried to estimate, from the trajectory of the missile, just where it had come from. He decided it must have been from the top floor of the block of offices opposite. He called for back-up, and soon some of his men were there, searching. But, of course, the would-be assassin was long gone, probably down the fire-escape. They did find a spent cartridge, which pin-pointed the window he'd fired from, in an empty office, but that wasn't much help.

But the incident had given Cowley pause for thought. Next day, he called Bodie and Doyle into his office, and warned them.

"There's no evidence it was Giordano's doing," he admitted, "but it does seem likely, doesn't it ?."

The other two nodded in agreement. Their boss had been lucky that the assailant's aim had not been accurate. But maybe the threats were serious. They would have to be extra vigilant.

"Just be careful," ordered Cowley, "and go straight now and pick up a 'tracer' which you'll wear night and day. No arguing !," he added firmly, as Bodie looked about to protest. "We need to know where you are, in case anything else happens."

The pair did as they were told, though Bodie grumbled all the way.

"What's the matter ?," asked Doyle, with a smile. "Afraid it'll curtail your social life ?".

"I don't think I want all and sundry knowing where I am at night," complained his friend. "That's a bit private."

The pair spent the next couple of days on a stake-out at a suspect house in Croydon, but nothing came of it, and they packed it in. Bodie was particularly pleased about that, as he heartily disliked stake-outs, especially fruitless ones.

So as they parked their cars and walked in the next morning, they were hoping for a more interesting assignment.

"Hi, Joe," said Bodie cheerfully, as the doorman admitted them.

"Ah, Bodie," replied Joe, "I was looking out for you. There was a parcel delivered for you yesterday."

"Oh, great," said Bodie eagerly. "Somebody loves me."

He moved towards the desk as Joe turned and went to reach under the shelf.

"Stop !," yelled Doyle, and both men turned to look at him in surprise.

"You fool, Bodie," exclaimed Doyle, "Have you forgotten what the boss said the other day ?"

"Oh, lord, I had," said Bodie, looking rather shame-faced.

"Have you ordered anything ?," demanded Doyle.

"No," admitted Bodie, "and if I had, I wouldn't have had it sent here !"

"Joe," ordered Doyle, "Don't touch that parcel, and come away from the desk, now."

The doorman obeyed instantly, and all three backed away. Doyle had his phone out, calling for back-up, and quickly the appropriate specialist squad was on the scene, dealing very gingerly with the suspect parcel, taking it away to be dealt with under controlled conditions.

Bodie and Doyle hurried on up to Cowley's office. As they went in, their boss greeted them with a scowl and a glare at Bodie.

"I warned you to be careful," he snapped, "For goodness sake, stay alert."

But there was still work to be done. Cowley produced several interesting reports, and soon all three were engrossed in reading the details. A while later they were interrupted by the phone ringing. Cowley took the call and listened intently. He replaced the receiver and glared again at his two best men.

"It was a 'nasty'," he told them, "and it would have killed anyone who tried to open it."

The listening pair exchanged glances. They had been lucky this time, but they would have to be very much on their guard in the future.

"They've got Joe looking at pictures of known associates of Giordano," went on Cowley, "but it was only a young lad that brought the parcel in."

"Probably just co-opted off the street," suggested Bodie.

"Very likely," agreed Cowley, "and even if we found him, I doubt whether he'd be able to identify who hired him."

"So," put in Doyle, "although we suspect Giordano is behind these attacks, we haven't an iota of proof."

Bodie and Doyle left the office clutching the folders they had been looking at with their boss. There was a lot more follow-up work to be done on these.

Such was the rapport between these two, that each was thinking the same thing. But it was Bodie who voiced the thought.

"You be extra careful, mate," he said. "They've had a go at Cowley and me. You could well be next."

And he was right !. But forewarned is forearmed.!

The next evening Doyle returned to his flat, entering by the back yard as usual. But as he approached the metal and glass doors that led into his kitchen, he stiffened and slowed.

While in the police force, Doyle had learned a few tricks from some of the more dubious characters he'd encountered, and he'd used one of them earlier. As he'd left in the morning, he'd, rather painfully, pulled some hairs from his head, and, using a licked finger, had stuck them carefully across the edge of the door, some high, some low.

He looked closely. They had gone ! It was possible a few had dried and fallen off naturally, but every one was missing ! Someone had been into his place !

He retreated to his car, and called in to base, and very soon a specialist squad turned up. They brought all sorts of equipment with them, as they were very experienced at dealing with booby-traps of all kinds. After some careful checking, they found the door was safe, so they opened it and moved just inside. They called Doyle, but wouldn't let him enter.

"Just stand in the doorway and look," ordered Malcolm, the leader of the group. "Is there anything out of place ?."

Doyle let his gaze range round the room. It all seemed in order. Then he saw it ! "The kettle," he exclaimed. "I always keep it with the handle to the left, so that the steam doesn't cloud the mirror on the wall above."

"Right," said Malcolm, "Now, back off, and let us deal with it."

Doyle went back to his car, and called his team-mate, who was just changing to go out. "Hi, Bodie," he said. "Surprise, surprise. I've had visitors at my flat."

"Are you all right, mate ?," asked Bodie anxiously.

"Yes," said Doyle, "Malcolm and his boys are on the job."

"Do you want to come round here ?," asked Bodie, quite prepared to ditch his date if his friend needed help.

"Not unless my place goes up with a bang," replied Doyle, with a laugh.

"Don't joke about it, Ray," exclaimed Bodie, his mind racing over what might have gone wrong.

Doyle sat in his car for a while, listening to the radio. Lulled by the music, he was on the verge of dropping off, when a tap on the window alerted him. It was Malcolm. Doyle climbed out of his car to hear the man's report.

"It's a good job you were alert, Doyle," said Malcolm. "Somebody did a nice bit of electrical engineering in your kitchen. If you'd picked up that kettle, it would have made your hair even curlier, and probably have blacked out half the street, too. Not nice !."

"Not nice at all !" agreed Doyle, visualising what might have happened

"My lads have sorted it," continued Malcolm, "and they've checked everywhere else. They're just fitting you some better locks. Then we'll be off."

Doyle thanked him and entered his flat, also thanking the men who were busy improving his security. He offered them coffee, and looked thoughtfully at his kettle as he filled it and switched it on. Going up in a blue flash, would have been very unpleasant.

The men had hardly gone, before his phone rang. He looked twice at it before picking up the receiver, though of course, it would have been checked. It was only his team-mate, asking if he was all right, so he gave him the details of what had been going on.

When the pair of them reported into Cowley's office the next morning, Doyle was in belligerent mood, and got in the first word. "Sir, what are we going to do about these attempts on our lives ?," he demanded.

"What do you suggest ?," countered Cowley, leaving Doyle feeling a little non-plussed, and without an answer for the moment.

"Constant vigilance," continued Cowley, "but I don't know what else. I've got men looking at one or two likely suspects, but even if we brought them in and leaned on them heavily, as we know how, I doubt whether any of them would confess to even knowing Giordano, much less acting on his orders."

Doyle had to concede that he was probably right. The kind of rogues that Giordano could employ, would not fall apart when questioned, however fiercely.

Once again they were playing a waiting game.!

Several days went by without incident. All three maintained their constant vigilance, but it was both stressful and frustrating.

Although he didn't really believe it, Bodie even began to wonder whether their potential assassins had given up their attempts.

How wrong he was !

Bodie returned to his flat late one evening, in a very disgruntled mood. He'd been entertaining a new young lady he'd met in a bar. She'd been great company, lively and flirtatious, and their conversation had been spiced with many saucy and suggestive remarks. Bodie had begun to feel that he was onto a good thing.! But when he'd taken her home, she had point-blank refused to invite him into her place, not even for a coffee or a nightcap. He was decidedly disappointed.

He parked his car, carefully locked, in its usual place, and walked round to the doorway of his block of flats, fumbling for the right key to admit him. As he neared, he saw through the heavy glass doors, that the foyer was still in darkness. I wish they'd get that light fixed, he thought to himself. It's been out of action for nearly a week.

He found the right key, let himself in, and made for the stairway, acting out of consideration for the other residents, as the lift was a bit noisy this late at night.

But although dark, the foyer was not empty ! Several men sprang from its darkest corners. One sprayed an aerosol can right in Bodie's face, and that was the last he knew, as the powerful stun gas took effect ! Strong hands grabbed his collapsing form, and quickly carried him out of the doors, and into the back of the blue van that had just pulled up to the kerb. The van doors were slammed shut after they all piled inside, and the vehicle sped swiftly away into the night.

Doyle had had a very pleasant evening in, re-arranging his record collection, and listening to some of his favourite pieces. He was in a relaxed mood the next morning, as he rode down in the lift from his flat, on his way in to work. I wonder how Bodie got on last night, he thought idly. He was very 'cock-a-hoop' when we left yesterday. He said he had a new date, very promising. I hope it worked out, he mused, for Bodie in a good mood was a lot easier to work with.

He approached the outside door, and, suddenly, he wasn't alone !

A large man, surprisingly light on his feet for such a big fellow, had stepped up behind him. Ordinarily, a difference in size would not have worried him, and he would have employed one of the many moves he knew.

But the feel of cold steel behind his ear, put a stop to any possible action ! And the hand gripping his shoulder was very powerful.

The big question in his mind, was how had the man managed to get in? The voice-box on the outside door should have prevented any intruder gaining entrance.

His captor propelled him towards the door. A small man nipped round the side of them and opened it. He was pushed through and urged in the direction of a dark saloon car on the corner. The little man darted ahead, and opened the rear door. The big man thrust Doyle in, keeping the gun very close to his head, giving him no chance of any retaliatory action. The little man hopped in beside the driver, who already had the engine running, and the car pulled away, turning southwards towards the river.

Bodie came to his senses slowly, with a splitting headache and a nasty taste in his mouth, after-effects of the stun gas. He realised straight away that he was immobilised, his hands and feet tied. He seemed to be sitting on a chair, with his arms pulled behind its back. Before opening his eyes, he listened carefully, trying to assess if there was anyone near him. He heard no sound, so opened his eyes cautiously, blinking in the strong light that was revealed.

He looked around and didn't much like what he saw. He was in the middle of an empty room, a square stone box of a room, with no windows that he could see, and not one other stick of furniture.

He pushed his bound feet to the floor and found that the chair was immoveable, bolted to the floor. A nasty feeling filled his mind. He'd seen rooms like this before, interrogation rooms in foreign jails, in Cambodia and Korea, and he knew of the unpleasant things that went on in them !

He suddenly felt cold, and realised that he was minus his jacket. So his captors had his I.D., his gun and all that he might have found useful. And the 'tracer' under his lapel, he thought ruefully !

He wrestled with the cords round his wrists, to no avail. They had been tightly tied, by an expert, and there was no way he was going to shift them. He was helpless, and he didn't like the feeling one bit !

He tried to assess mentally what time of day it was. There were no windows, so no light to give him an indication. But he reckoned it was fairly early morning. I wonder how long it will be before they realise I am missing, and start looking for me, he wondered. But without the 'tracer', they wouldn't know where to start, and London is a big place. Even if I'm still in London, was another daunting thought !

Then came an interruption, the sound of a key unlocking the door of his prison. It swung wide open, but he didn't like what it revealed !

There was his team-mate, Doyle, held in a tight half-nelson, by a big man nearly a foot taller than him !

"Brought you a friend," said the man, grinning evilly.

He fished inside Doyle's jacket, and pulled his gun from its holster. Then he gave the man in front of him a hefty shove, which sent him staggering forwards into the room. As Doyle struggled to maintain his balance, Bodie heard an ominous 'click'. Then came the sound of a shot, as the big man fired the gun straight into the back of the stumbling man !

Doyle jerked at the impact, then folded limply, to sprawl face down on the stone floor, almost at Bodie's feet. He gave a moan, and then was still.

"Doyle," yelled Bodie, shocked at the speed of events.

The big man in the doorway gave an evil laugh. "Regards from Mr. Giordano," he shouted. "Goodbye, gentlemen."

He flicked the switch by the door, and pulled it closed behind him. Bodie heard the click of the lock, as the room was plunged into total darkness.

"Ray, Ray," he called urgently, but got no response. He wrestled with his bonds again, but made no more impression than before. He stilled his breath, and listened intently, trying to hear if his mate was still breathing, but in the deathly silence of the darkened room, he couldn't be sure.

Time passed very slowly. From time to time, Bodie renewed his frantic efforts to free himself, rubbing his wrists raw with his struggles, even though he knew in his mind that it was useless. Periodically, too, he called his friend's name, mentally begging him to respond, but there was nothing.

His mood grew blacker and blacker. He hadn't, in the past, let his mind dwell on how he might meet his end. If he'd thought about it at all, he supposed he might have expected that one day a bullet might end his existence, in the heat of some exciting action.

But he'd never visualised this situation !

Was this how it was going to finish for him, starving to death in a cold, dark dungeon, with his partner dead at his feet ?

Well if Giordano wanted revenge, he'd got it in full measure !

Then something touched his foot !

Ugh, he thought, is there a rat in this hole too ? As much as he was able to, he flexed his foot to kick it away. To his surprise, there came a sound, a feeble sound, a cross between a yelp and a groan, but one that was never produced by any rodent he knew of !

"Ray, you're alive ?," he gasped, with great relief.

"Silly question," came the reply, jocular as usual, but very faint and weak.

But then the touch on his foot was back, and moving upwards, and Bodie felt the sawing action of a knife on the ropes round his ankles. Doyle's little flick-knife, of course.! His mate always carried it; it was a relic of his wilder youthful days. Only the other day he'd showed him how he'd been experimenting, with the aid of a couple of sports sweat bands, to carry it on his wrist instead of in his pocket.

Bodie kept very still as he felt the little knife, always kept very sharp, making short work of his bonds. At last they fell away and his feet were free.

Then came two sounds that scared him, a faint moan, and then the clatter of the little knife falling to the floor.

"Ray," he called urgently, but got no reply. The effort must have been too much for the injured man. He had passed out again !

But now that his feet were free, Bodie could do something to help himself. He'd already determined that although his hands were tied together, they weren't secured to the chair as his feet had been. He could work them up and off the back. With a great deal of contortions, getting one foot up onto the seat of the chair, he managed this. As his hands, still tightly linked came off the straight back of the chair, he lost his balance, and fell heavily to the floor. Wriggling around, he found the legs of the chair, and hanging onto it, managed to get back to his feet.

He stood for a moment with his back against the chair-back, orientating himself. He was behind the chair; Doyle was in front of it. So if he moved sideways he would not be in danger of stepping on him.

He imitated a crab, edging sideways till he came up against the wall. Then he turned to set his back against it, and moved cautiously round till he came to the door. He eased past it and found what he was searching for, - the light switch. A little bit of squirming against it with his shoulder, and he moved it. Light filled the room again.

He hurried forward to look at his team-mate. He was lying very still, with one arm out-stretched, and the dropped knife inches from his fingers, underneath the chair.

Bodie moved round quickly, and with one foot, carefully pulled the little knife out to where he could reach it. Using the fixed chair as support, he eased himself down to a sitting position, and scrabbled carefully about till his fingers closed on the vital tool. Then it took only minutes for him to turn it carefully in his fingers, to attack the cords round his wrists. At last, he was free !

He closed the knife, put it carefully in his trouser pocket, and hurried round to his friend's side. As his fingers moved to his mate's neck, searching for a pulse, he registered the ominous neat hole in the back of the leather jacket Doyle was wearing.

He found a beat, weak but regular. Doyle was still alive, though freeing him had evidently sapped all his strength.

He must get him help quickly ! But how ? The door to their prison was securely locked, and there were no windows.

Gingerly, he lifted the back of the leather jacket, and was appalled by the extent of the dark stain on the T-shirt below.

But then he felt something that gave him a thrill of hope ! The weight of the garment he was moving told him told him that Doyle's radio-phone was still in its usual pocket. Trying not to disturb the inert form too much, for fear of causing further damage, he eased it out. His fingers found the right button eagerly, and he gasped with relief when a friendly voice responded.

Then an urgent voice came through, Cowley's. "Bodie, are you all right ?," he demanded.

"Yes," replied Bodie, "But Doyle's hurt, - badly, I think. He's been shot."

"Where are you ?," asked Cowley urgently.

"I've no idea," said Bodie.

"What about your 'tracer'," demanded his boss.

"I haven't got it," replied Bodie. "They took my jacket, my gun, my I.D. and the 'tracer'. This is Doyle's phone I'm using."

"What about his 'tracer' ?," asked Cowley.

"I hadn't thought of that," admitted Bodie. "Just a minute. I'll see if I can find it."

He eased his partner up gently, and felt about for the little instrument. He pulled it out, and gasped in dismay. It appeared to be broken, damaged, no doubt, when his friend fell to the floor.

He picked up the phone again. "I've got it," he said, "but it doesn't seem to be working. As he spoke his fingers were jiggling with the tool, trying to fit the pieces back together.

A yell in his ear startled him. "Yes, it is," called Cowley. "They're tracing it now." There was a pause, and then he added, "You're across the river, somewhere in south Lewisham. Keep it in that position, and we'll be there as soon as we can."

Bodie eased himself down to sit on the floor, concentrating on keeping the pieces of the broken tool in the same place. He'd left the phone open, and was being heartened by a running commentary from the team doing the tracking.

Then Cowley's voice came again. "We're getting close," he said. "Can you give us any idea of what kind of building we're looking for.

"No, I can't," answered Bodie. "I didn't see the outside. But this room is pretty large, so you're looking for somewhere likely to have a big storage area, or a huge cellar."

"Right," said Cowley briskly. "We'll find it."

It was less than five minutes later when Bodie heard a most welcome sound, the click of the lock in their prison door. It opened and several men swarmed in, led by Cowley himself.

Greatly to Bodie's surprise, close after him came Dr. Fenton, from St. Richards hospital, followed by two ambulance men. Bodie was very pleased to see the young doctor, who had become a close friend to both him and Doyle. If anyone could help his mate, it was this clever surgeon. Fenton rushed to Doyle's side, and knelt down to examine him carefully.

Cowley greeted Bodie, very relieved to find that at least one of his best team was relatively unscathed. He asked for details of what exactly had happened, and listened intently as Bodie related all he knew.

"We've got Giordano this time though," said Bodie. "I can identify the two men who brought Doyle in. The big one was Franco Rossi. He's a known villain, an associate of Giordano, and, we think, almost certainly a Mafia agent."

"Yes, know him," said Cowley. "There's a big file on him."

"The little weasel with him is Tommy Potts," continued Bodie. "He'll do anything for money, and he's good on locks and electrics."

"We'll have them both in," said Cowley enthusiastically.

"You won't get much from Rossi," suggested Bodie, "At least, not easily. But Potts, if he's on his own, is afraid of his own shadow. Threaten him a bit, and he'll squeal like a stuck pig."

All the time he was talking to his boss, Bodie was watching Dr. Fenton, who was looking very serious. The ambulance men brought the stretcher alongside the still form, and carefully lifted Doyle onto it. Bodie noted, with considerable concern, that they kept the patient in the same prone position, as if they didn't want to move him too much. He found that unusual, and worrying.

As the men lifted the stretcher, and moved towards the door, Bodie went to follow them. But Cowley's hand on his arm stopped him.

Bodie turned a mutinous face towards his boss. "I want to go with him," he declared.

"To do what ?," was Cowley's rather brutal reply. "No," he said firmly. "You come back to base with me. Our man will see to those wrists. It'll be quicker than going to Casualty. You can get me out the files on Rossi and Potts, so we can get after them. Then I'll get someone to run you to the hospital."

Changing his tone, Cowley added, "Come on, man. He's in the best possible hands. Fenton will look after him, and the most useful thing you can do, is to help me get those responsible."

Reluctantly, Bodie conceded and did as his boss had suggested. Their own medical man, Thornton dealt with the chafed wrists, and insisted on sending for coffee and sandwiches for the harassed man he was treating. Bodie then went to Records and extracted the files on Rossi and Potts. He took them to Cowley's office and handed them over. As he turned to go, he met Murphy, twirling some car keys in his hand.

"Come on, Bodie," he said. "I've orders to take you to St Richards now."

As the pair went down the stairs together, Murphy tried to be re-assuring. "He'll be all right, Bodie," he said. "He's a survivor, and Fenton is a genius."

"Oh, by the way," he added, "I've sent two men, with spare keys, to collect your car. They'll bring it to the hospital car-park for you." Bodie thanked him for that helpful thought. Murphy was a good friend, and knew how worried he was about his team-mate.

An anxious enquiry elicited the fact that Dr. Fenton was even now in the operating-theatre with Doyle. Bodie was directed to a nearby waiting room, and had to be satisfied with the assurance that he would be told as soon as there was any news.

He paced the floor, looked out of the window, flicked idly through some of the ancient magazines on the table, _ and waited !

Hours passed and his concern increased. He knew that there had to be an operation to extract the bullet from Doyle's back, but why was it taking so long ? Were there complications ? Was he critical ?

At last the door of the waiting-room opened, and Dr. Fenton swept in, in his usual energetic fashion. Seeing the stressed look on Bodie's face he spoke quickly. "Stop worrying, Bodie," he said, "He's going to be all right."

"You were so long !" exclaimed Bodie.

"Yes, we were," agreed Fenton. "We had to be extra careful, for the bullet was lodged perilously near his spine, and I didn't want to add to the damage. But it's out now, and he heals well. It'll take a little time, but he'll be fine."

Bodie was so relieved. Fenton had become a friend to both of them, and he wouldn't lie to him. If he was as confident as he sounded, then things would be all right.

"It was lucky that he was unconscious so much," went on the doctor. "If he'd been awake, and moving around, the bullet might have shifted. If it had, it could have killed him, or caused total paralysis."

This revelation shocked Bodie to the core, as he realised that the effort that Doyle had put into freeing him, could have had such disastrous consequences.

"Can I see him ?," he asked eagerly.

"Not worth it today," replied Fenton. "I'm keeping him heavily sedated at the moment, so that he stays still while my handiwork mends."

"Just a look," begged Bodie. Fenton conceded, and took him into the small intensive care room.

Doyle looked rather pale, but the readings on all the various attached monitors etc. seemed to please the doctor. "He's doing fine," he re-assured Bodie. "Now buzz off and catch the people responsible."

Feeling much better, Bodie collected his car and drove back to Headquarters, reporting the situation to Cowley, who hid his relief, just as he had hidden his earlier concern. Such was his way.

In spite of his protests, Bodie was dismissed for the rest of the day, and as he drove home he thought about what Fenton had said, and how close he might have been to losing his team-mate. And perhaps it was this that put a sudden generous idea into his head. As soon as he got indoors, he started making a few phone calls to implement it.

Acting on purpose, Cowley sent other teams to pick up Rossi and Potts. He didn't want Bodie to be involved, as that hothead might just lose his cool, and be more violent than was necessary. Both villains were quickly found and brought into the Interrogation Centre, where they were securely held in separate rooms.

As Bodie had predicted, Rossi, who had put up quite a fight before being subdued, proved very difficult and un-co-operative. But he looked a bit taken aback when he heard that Bodie and Doyle were alive and could testify against him. He continued to bluster, but less confidently, and Cowley was hopeful that, given time, experienced interrogators might get somewhere with him.

Potts, of course, was a different matter. Left on his own, he collapsed like a pricked balloon, and told them everything they wanted to know. As suspected, he'd been the one who had done the electrical work at Doyle's place. He knew who had fired at Cowley, and who had prepared Bodie's 'present'.

Armed with all this information, Cowley made a secret visit to a certain secure prison. He confronted Giordano across the bare table in a bleak, chilly prison room.

Speaking in fluent Italian, so that the compulsory attendant prison officer on guard could not understand, he came straight to the point. "Giordano, this is going to stop, here and now ! You are a family man. You have a wife and children, brothers and sisters. I do not ! But my men are my family, and I'm very protective of them. You killed one of them, badly injured another, and attacked me ! You owe me, big time, Giordano."

He glared menacingly at the astounded man opposite, and continued, "If there are any more incidents, I shall collect my 'blood dues'. Be warned !"

It was all a terrific bluff, of course, but Giordano belonged to a culture whose past was littered with 'vendettas' and 'blood feuds'. So he believed every word, and quailed visibly. Cowley had threatened reprisals against his family !

From then on, his attitude changed. The ranting and raving stopped abruptly, and he was silent and subdued.

Doyle continued to improve rapidly, and was soon sitting up and taking notice. He listened with interest to Bodie's reports on the interrogation of Rossi and Potts, and heard how the evidence against Giordano was piling up.

But neither of them learned about Cowley's visit to the villain, for he told no-one about it, and he was very good at keeping secrets.

One afternoon, Bodie walked into the hospital in a jaunty mood, with a large carrier-bag in his hand. He found his team-mate sitting up in bed, looking very pleased with himself.

"Hi, sunshine," Bodie greeted his friend, "How are you ?."

"Much better," replied Doyle. "I was up for a while this morning, and managed a walk along the corridor. Simon says if I keep on doing well, I should be out soon."

"Then you'll need this," said Bodie, dumping his carrier-bag on the bed.

"What is it ?," asked Doyle curiously, as he reached for the gift.

"Look and see," said Bodie with a grin.

Doyle opened the bag, and pulled out its contents, - his leather jacket !

As he turned it over in his hands, and saw the back, he gave a gasp of pleasure. The jacket had been expertly repaired. A section, where the hole had been, had been taken out, and replaced by a neat panel, exactly colour-matched, with a delicate embossed design. It had been so well done, that it looked as if the jacket had been originally designed that way.

"Bodie, it's great," exclaimed Doyle. "Thank you so much !."

Bodie beamed at his friend's pleasure. It had been an expensive gesture, because it was a special commission.

But then, Ray Doyle was special too, so it was well worth it.


End file.
